The rest of the day passed in one big blurr. Mycroft was marching restlessly through his house like a caged lion, all the while opening a book and then throwing it away in frustration.

"I´m sure Sherlock can manage Milverton," Greg tried to calm him.

"This - it happened because I didn´t pay attention."

"You are not responsible for the idiot´s actions. You cannot manage people like pawns on a giant chessboard."

Mycroft turned and glared, but then his features softened a bit. "Of course not. Life is not chess. It would be stupid to have one such all-powerful, but extremely vulnerable piece as a king in real world."

"What game would life be, then, dare I ask?" smiled Greg.

"Go."

"Say it again?"

"Go. An old Chinese board game."

"How is it different?"

"In chess, you have different pieces, and their starting positions and power vary. In Go, all stones are basically equal and their importance is decided by their location on the board. Also, you are not trying to crush your opponent completely whatever the cost, but gain as much as you can with as little work as possible."

"Interesting," Lestrade grinned.

"What?"

"Nothing. You do realise that you are teaching me politics right now?"

"Are you planning to run for an election?" Mycroft was definitely more relaxed now.

"Nah. I would be a shit MP."

"Most of them are," smirked Mycroft, earning himslef a grin in turn. Then he went mad, apparently, because he heard himself saying: "And you certainly have a chance. All the ladies would vote for a Silver Fox."

"Shut up," Greg blushed. He was quite near to Mycroft now.

Reverse, reverse, reverse... You have already guiltied him into holding you, into kissing you, even. You should stop now, while there is still a chance. Stop making him pity you so much, stop telling him stories... There is no chance, and even if there were, if what you saw while your brain was muddled by medication was true and he really had feelings for you... You can´t do it to him. You can´t hurt him, and you always hurt those you care for in the end.

So he evades the kiss. So he runs to the kitchen pretending to make tea. He won´t do this, he can´t do this. He is the same Mycroft Holmes who managed to be on his own whole his life, after all.

This has to be a dream, he realised. But it is a surprise. He hadn´t had dreams in decades.

And, judging by the venue, this was not to be a pleasant one.

It was the hut. The one he has spent two weeks in. Being tied to the ceiling by his hands.

It even smelled like that. Like wetness and sweat and blood and piss and fear.

Someone entered behind him. He could feel his gaze and the draft of the door opening, but no sound. Weird. He remembered the real door was quite noisy.

"Hello, Mycroft," there is a hiss in his ear. No, it can´t be. He is dead!

But this is a dream, remember? Even dead men are allowed into dreams.

And then his father is standing in front of him, in his parade uniform, the medals gleaming menacingly in the poor light.

"Did you think you can run from me forever, Mycroft? Did you think you can escape?"

And than the hand stops smoothing Mycroft´s hair and starts beating. The face. Everywhere.

It hurts, of course. Even though he is aware that this is not real, that this is a dream and he is in fact alright in his bed, just unable to wake up, the punches hurt. But he can handle pain.

What is really confusing and scary is the other thing. He is alternating bodies.

One moment, he is being punched.

The other, he is the one punching.

Please, stop. Please. I am not like this, I am not... Please, I am not like him. Just stop this.

Than he realises that he is yelling that: "I am not like you!"

And he is back in his own dream-body, and probably not leaving it soon.

Siger Holmes is watching him with his cold, blue eyes. What does he see? Mycroft wonders. Does he see another himself, just as I am what he could have been? We are similar enough in our appearance.

A Small Tortoiseshell found its way inside. What is it doing here?

The butterfly sits on Mycroft´s shoulder, the one with the scar made by a bullet. It is crushed in Siger´s fist.

Then his father is gone and the small window in front of him lights up. He can see clearly outside now, except that there is no outside there.

The room behind the glass is very white and sterile. There is Sherlock. And John. Well, more like there is Sherlock fucking John, having him turned over a morgue slab.

You are really going mad, Mycroft.

A man is making photographs of his brother and his flatmate naked. Light flashes.

He is on the slab now. His brother is gone. John is gone. The photographer is gone.

Greg Lestrade is standing above him, murmuring something, but he can´t understand. Why can´t I understand?

And then the cop has a knife and the knife is plunged into Mycroft´s chest. He watches it being cut open. He watches his heart beating, until it is squeezed in Lestrade´s fingers and ripped out.

He´s yelling...

He´s yelling.

"Mycroft, calm down. Mycroft!" Lestrade is having his hand on his chest, pinning him to the bed.

He has to get away, out of the bed, out of here.

Mycroft plunged sideways, falling from the bed, but scrambling to all fours and crawling away.

"Mycroft! What the hell!"

"Stay away!"

"Ok. I´m not moving, see? It was a dream, My. It was just a dream."

Greg was sitting on the floor next to the bed and watching Mycroft with a worried expression. Mycroft was hugging his knees, his back to the wall in the darkest corner of the room.

Why, beat, won´t, beat, my, beat, heart, beat, slow, beat, down?

There was no answer, but Mycroft knew that if he stayed, he would crumble completely. He would melt in the corner, and he couldn´t allow it, he can´t let Greg see him this weak again. He has to deal with this himself, he is obliged to deal with this himself, he cannot and will not burden anyone else again. He tried that so far and see what happened?

So he got up and moved passed Lestrade out of the room. Walking won´t be enough, Mycroft´s mind supplied. You need something stronger.

The first glass of brandy burnt his throat. The second one made its way all the way down to his stomach, but his hands still won´t stop shaking. When he is making his third glass, a soft touch nudges him to the shoulder.

"I think that is enough, My."

"Who are you? My mother?"

He downs it and continues making yet another. This time a firm hand grips his wrist to stop him.

"If you stopped, we could talk."

"About what?"

"Mycroft, I was woken by you crying out of your sleep," Lestrades gave him a meaningful look. "Talking about it might help."

"Help? You want to help, yeah?"

"Of course..."

"I will tell you something, then. Ever since you started helping me I am getting worse."

"And you were fine before, eh? When you let me humiliate you in the car, when you almost killed yourself by alcohol and not eating and when you were risking your life at work?"

"At least I was stable!"

"Were you happy?"

The grip on the wrist loosened, as there was no answer coming. Mycroft used it to seize his glass.

"I need the drink."

"Dr Dhaliwal..."

"STOP THIS! Why are you even here? What are you to me? Is it bringing you joy to watch me shatter?"

Greg witheld his arm as if it were bitten. "What I am to you indeed." And he turned to leave.

Mycroft should really let him go. This is the better option, really. But his eyes were so hurt. He should really let Greg go...

"Wait! Please, wait!" He can hear the sound of the front door opening. He can see Lestrade´s silver head moving away from him.

Mycroft is trying to run, but it is somewhat less coordinated than usually. He needs to slow Greg down if he wants to catch up with him. I love you, he wants to shout, but he can´t. Because he has just hurt him. Because every time Mycroft is scared, he bites around him. Because he doesn´t want Greg to become another man he loves and whom he failed.

"My father was in the dream!" he shouts instead, trying to not think about how he was yelling andamantly that he was ´not like him´and how much like him he really was.

Lestrade stops in the doorway. It looks like it worked, looks like he has got his attention now. He walks over to Greg at a slower pace. They sand face to each other on different sides of the doorframe.

"I am sorry," Mycroft tries. "I shouldn´t´ve accuse you of... being responsible... for who I am. I guess I was just running away for too long... and things are just catching up on me..." He is suddenly feeling very dizzy and has to hold on to the doorframe to not fall. "I am so sorry," he repeats.

Just as Greg was nearing his face to his, a shot echoed in the street.